


Churrasco

by Petronia



Series: Hannibal stories [12]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Tetralogy - Thomas Harris
Genre: Brazilian Art, Cannibalism, Gen, Minor Original Character(s), Post-Season/Series 03, Silence of the Lambs References, dark-ish Will Graham, highkey Sorrentino-esque party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 08:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13120272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Petronia/pseuds/Petronia
Summary: Dr. Hunt was less interested in the food than he was in the sculpture. He had recently begun to take inspiration from the Brazilian Anthropophagists – the mid-20th-century Surrealist followers of Oswald de Andrade's post-colonial "Cannibalist Manifesto" – largely out of a perverse sense of humour. Alone, by the fountain, he fixedOxóssiin his mind's eye and banished the rest of the party from his consciousness, in great successive sweeps of light. The noise and gaiety, the serving staff, the guests and hosts themselves: each disappeared in its turn.He left the bright lamps, and the feast.





	Churrasco

I.

 

"Come," said São Jorge, "you must try these. Red snapper sashimi – _matsukawa tsukuri_ – in a pool of clarified gazpacho, topped with violet micro-basil and transparent radish shards."

Each piece of sashimi came in a _sakazuki_ saucer, dark green veined with gold. There was a general murmur of admiration, and the gaggle of guests reached for the server's tray.

"A fusion of Japan and Latin America, as befits the theme of the exhibition," said Coelho, the Colombian lawyer. "I commend your chef's creativity. A new caterer, isn't it?"

"A treasure, and we have Dr. Hunt to thank for his recommendation," said Aglaé São Jorge. Hunt tipped his champagne glass slightly at her acknowledgment. "We only established the overarching theme – Hubert did the rest."

"That's hardly true," São Jorge said, jovial. "I memorized the menu for your delectation. Don't laugh, Raúl! Would you have enjoyed the morsel as much if you had had to guess at the fish, or the composition of the broth? The gourmand's theatre relies on anticipation, but that anticipation cannot be formless."

"Spoken like a curator," Coelho said, directing the aside to his much younger, platinum-blonde girlfriend, with a smile.

"Some might say it spoils the surprise," Hunt murmured, into his glass. Coelho's girlfriend – who stood closest – glanced at him, then pressed her lips together and took another saucer of sashimi.

 

 

II.

 

There was no sit-down dinner: the guests numbered in the hundreds. Aside from the bevy of servers circulating with trays of appetizers and drinks, a lavish buffet spread had been set up in the fountain atrium, around São Jorge's grandiosely sized plaster recast of Maria Martins's _Oxóssi_. There were asparagus souffles and roasted endives and plumed crests of lettuce, set vertically on mirrors; bouquets of carved mango flowers in vases; and peacock tails carved from green and white melons. A pilaf of coconut rice and red/black beans, baked in individual crab shells and scattered with cilantro, surrounded the gleaming heap of crab meat at one platter's centre. Miniature parfaits were displayed, fancifully, on large scallop shells laid in a bed of ice. And there was a grand mixed churrasco, of course; manned by a full carving staff, fuelled by a steady stream from the kitchens of everything from white and black sausages to pork roast to rib steak to chicken and quail – each morsel brushed with green chimichurri and served with saffron-infused _pão de queijo_.

Dr. Hunt, who had met Aglaé São Jorge at a museum benefit, was less interested in the food than he was in the sculpture. He had recently begun to take inspiration from the Brazilian Anthropophagists – the mid-20th-century Surrealist followers of Oswald de Andrade's post-colonial "Cannibalist Manifesto" – largely out of a perverse sense of humour. Alone, by the fountain, he fixed _Oxóssi_ in his mind's eye and banished the rest of the party from his consciousness, in great successive sweeps of light. The noise and gaiety, the serving staff, the guests and hosts themselves: each disappeared in its turn.

He left the bright lamps, and the feast. 

Oxóssi was a warrior spirit, in the Yoruba religion: guardian of the forest, finder of the hidden path, champion of justice and insight. Male, though Martins's depiction was ambiguously gendered. Rather, Hunt could not tell if it had breasts or many heads, within a tangle of what might have been limbs or snakes or jungle lianas. The figure seemed to strain upward, reaching toward the atrium skylight, in an attempt to break free from its bonds; or from itself. Its tallest point was crowned with an arrow tip, caught within a half-moon bow.

Hunt thought of the legend of Saint Hubert, who saw a burning crucifix caught between the antlers of a stag. Other, more ancient iconographies remained also: Artemis, or Cernunnos. Hunter, Horned One, or both. 

The forest grew, eternal, from the mind, and thus resisted civilization.

" _Je sais que mes Déesses et je sais que mes Monstres / toujours t'apparaîtront et sensuelles et barbares,_ " his friend said, at his shoulder. "Martins addressed that line in 'Explanation,' I believe, to her lover Marcel Duchamp – the father of conceptual art."

"The rational European ironist, _sine qua non,_ " Hunt murmured. "Was he condescending to her?"

"Perhaps he was able to refrain. The myths of Europe were outmoded in 1947, and for good reason."

It was the memory of an earlier, more leisurely conversation; in their own chairs, with brandy. Hunt turned away from the sculpture, suddenly impatient. He directed his gaze downward, in order not to see what he knew he wouldn't.

"I'm not enjoying this," he said. 

"I think you're doing fine." The tone was amused, and warmed Hunt involuntarily even as it irritated him.

"You can't be satisfied either. Labouring among the ropes and painted backdrops. I'd've thought you'd want to see the audience."

"You're seeing it now. Describe to me the faces at the play."

"Vapid, poisoned. Or ignorant. Coelho is afraid."

"And the girl," his friend said. "Did you notice the girl?"

"Of course I did. I'm talking to myself." Hunt shoved his hands into his pockets. "Something's afoot tonight, do you realize? We've stepped in someone's anthill."

"Don't worry so much. Hush now – there's dear Aglaé, with General da Silva Lopes, and beautiful Evelda Drumgo who's just arrived. She's fashionably late; she'll tell the São Jorges in public that her husband was unavoidably detained, and sends his regrets. That will prompt an emergency meeting. For now, go say hello."

"Go to Hell," Hunt said, straightened, and caught Aglaé's eye with regrettable ease.

 

 

III.

 

Later, when the tiki torches had been lit all around the patio and the swimming pool, Coelho's young girlfriend moved through the party, around the great hulk of Oxóssi, up the curving atrium staircase and out to the broad second-floor balcony that was its continuation, like a lotus leaf growing from within the house.

She wore a sheath of coral, softened with tulle, and green stones winked at her throat and ears. In each hand she carried a fresh stem of champagne, as if fetching a companion's drink. No one interrupted her passage with more than a glance.

The balcony was lit, too, but quieter, and more sparsely populated. She had guessed correctly: Hunt leaned against the sandstone lip, gazing out and downward, toward the swimming pool directly below. Suit jacket carelessly unbuttoned, one hand in his trouser pocket and the other holding a glass. He had switched to hard liquor.

The pose was elegantly dissipated, all sprezzatura. The glasses were gone. He had – she thought drily – done better in the hair department than she had managed. But there was the affect, something of the old self-defensive prickle: _you were warned, don't say you weren't_. 

Only, the quills had turned to blades.

"Did Coelho tell you to run along?" he said, in English, not turning. "That the menfolk had serious business to discuss?"

"If they did," she said, "it was with Evelda Drumgo. I saw her go in Mr. São Jorge's library."

"Touché," said Hunt. "We mustn't count out Evelda."

"I like Raúl. But I haven't known him long. I can't say I'm all that interested in his business."

"Careful," said Hunt. "Careful, Miss—"

"Clarice, please," she said. "Clarice Estornino."

"You were doing very well, Clarice. Do you feel it? We were on the verge of a civil conversation. Don't muddy the water with lies; we won't get anywhere."

"Civil conversation," she said. "You ought to have some experience of that."

"Difficult to avoid civility when the evidence of it surrounds us."

"It's a beautiful house."

"It is. Fifteen million in US currency, give or take. Do you know how São Jorge made his first fifteen million? Or Da Silva Lopes? Or – Dijon Drumgo? The man whose enterprise feeds all these mouths?"

"Everyone knows about Dijon Drumgo," said Clarice.

"It can be surprisingly difficult to prove what everyone knows," said Hunt. "And yes, I _do_ have some experience of that. Your friend Coelho is playing for high stakes."

"He's not alone."

"No," said Hunt. "He has you. Whispering in his ear, reminding him what his choices are."

Clarice was silent. A rejoinder hovered in the air, but she did not want to give voice to the name in her thoughts: as if, fairytale-like, it would break a geis. She was genuinely uncertain what the effect of that might be.

"You're wondering if _I'm_ here alone," said Hunt. 

_Are you?_ Clarice didn't say. _Do you need help?_ came to the tip of her tongue in its place, and she bit it back. It was as ludicrous as it was instinctive.

Hunt looked at her face directly, for the first time, then away again. He seemed to be straining for a voice on the edge of hearing. 

His eyes had caught, and held, the inscrutable blue of the pool below.

"I remember an anecdote, from when I was a teacher," he said. "An origin story of sorts. The sheriff of a small border town – a hardworking, upstanding man – stopped a suspicious vehicle at a gas station. There was cocaine in the car, and the sheriff got two sawed-off shotgun barrels to the chest. 

"He left a wife and daughter. The wife cleaned motels to make ends meet. The daughter was sent away, first to relatives, then an orphanage. Some years later she joined law enforcement. Said – she wanted to catch monsters.

"There are lots of monsters. Different kinds. Some you hunt, some you fish. Sometimes, when you – fish – you have to wade into the stream. You wear a pretty dress and drink champagne, in a beautiful house very far away from where the money that paid for it was made. You look your monsters in the face. 

"Sometimes, you like it. You spend so long at it you forget yourself. You start to think – I belong here. This is who I am, or would be. In another world."

"If Daddy had been a little less upstanding?" Clarice said. She felt very clear-headed, which from experience she knew was dangerous.

"You tell me."

"You ever turn that highly honed power of perception on yourself?"

"Often," said Hunt. He didn't smile. "You're deep in the forest, Clarice. So am I. We meet on the banks of the stream."

"By coincidence," she said.

"Quite right. What are the odds? You wondered if I remembered you. You came up here to look me in the face. But I'm not the monster you want."

He pushed away from the balcony edge, and made for the stairs. It took him past where she stood, unmoving. At the last moment he paused, angling his head to the side.

"There are security cameras," he said, low. "No microphones, but I'd prefer not to be lipread for this. Listen carefully. Go to the guest parking lot – tell the valet you need to get something out of Coelho's car. Look for the cream-coloured Maybach 62 Landaulet with tinted windows. It belongs to São Jorge and no one's driven it in months. The keys are under the front wheel, and what you're looking for is in the glove compartment. 

"Do it now, before the meeting breaks up. The real estate deal is off regardless of what Evelda says, and once they hear the recording, your people will pull you and Coelho out. You'll lose your chance. Do you understand?"

"I understand," she said, "but—"

"Then go," he said.

 

 

IV.

 

Clarice – the young woman currently known as Clarice Estornino – went.

There was no way Graham should have known about the deal, or the laundering. But there had been a dark certitude in his voice, at times, that had struck her as a trainee; it struck her again now, with the force of superstition. He had only ever lectured them about luck and groundwork and imagination, but the trainees had believed he saw things he couldn't have, knew things he shouldn't have.

_You'll lose your chance,_ he had said.

A few guests were already leaving in their cars; the valet paid her no attention.

The Maybach 62 was a stolidly luxurious hulk from the early naughts, essentially a short limousine with a rolltop roof for back passengers. The key was where Graham had said it would be. She unlocked the driver's side door and slid in, closing it behind her.

That was the first button on the fob. The second button she tried rolled down the tinted glass between the driver and the rest of the vehicle, by about two inches. There was someone in the back seat.

Clarice froze. Remembered in crystalline calm that she wasn't carrying a sidearm. The inside of the car was perfectly silent and motionless for a heartbeat – two – and then she understood.

She rolled down the glass, the rest of the way.

The face was distorted, drained of blood, but it was Dijon Drumgo. The rest below the neck was not human. It might have been plaster, or a store mannequin; dressed in an impeccable cream-coloured, double-breasted suit with peaked lapels. She had never seen the suit before, but thought it in line with Drumgo's usual wardrobe. The artificial arms were posed at chin height, palms up and elbows out, balancing a round wooden platter covered by a glass bell. 

The head was on the platter. Flecks of green covered the face, and the skin shone as if it had been brushed with oil. Little cheese rolls – _pão de queijo_ – had been arranged around the ragged stump.

_The man whose enterprise feeds all these mouths._

As far as Clarice could see, there were no bloodstains, anywhere.

After a minute, still very calm, she tried the next most likely button on the key fob, and opened the glove compartment. Shuffled through the contents of the thick envelope she found there, and took and uploaded photographs of the signatures and bank drafts. Slipped the whole packet into her purse. 

All the while thinking, a kind of incongruous mental counterpoint:

I ate the fish.

How would you – with the fish? There were salads, too. Courses for vegetarians.

But you never know, do you?

 

 

V.

 

Dessert was lime-passion fruit mousse and chocolate ganache tarts, served with a selection of cheeses and sweet wines. It was well past midnight, and when he was accosted by the ruckus of guests falling, uproariously, into the swimming pool fully clothed, Will Graham decided abruptly that he had had enough. 

He showed himself to the kitchens.

Hubert was not present. He had gone down to the wine cellar, or around back, where the smoker and outdoor barbecue had been set up. The catering staff would pass on Dr. Hunt's message, and let Hubert know that Aglaé wanted to speak with him.

_Exit, pursued by a bear,_ Will thought. He pushed past the caterers, ignoring their half-hearted protests.

The courtyard was not much quieter, but it was darker. Line cooks bustled and laughed around the glowing hulks of braziers. Everything smelled like woodsmoke and meat.

Only a few cuts were choice for grilling, on any given carcass. Organs accumulated poisons, and curing took months of patience. But in a matter of hours, fresh blood could be turned into sausage; tough muscle could be braised or ground; fat rendered for baking; bones and cartilage boiled for gelatin, or roasted and simmered to make stock and demi-glace. All that would remain of the feast was its pleasant memory, and the thesis statement in São Jorge's car.

Will stood at the centre of the theatrical apparatus – the jungle of levers and pulleys – and watched for the shadow of antlers. _Okê, arô, Oxóssi._ Forest-lord, show me the path. Grant me the prosperous hunt.

It occurred to him for the first time that he was drunk.

"Would you like to leave?" he heard Hannibal say, as if from a distance. Will laughed, softly.

"That's a dangerous question," he said. But his entire self was turning toward Hannibal's presence and voice, as it always did.

"You found an audience for the work," Hannibal said. "Someone who is able to appreciate it as intended." 

"In this instance, maybe. She needed help."

Hannibal touched him gently, on the lower back, and Will let himself be guided: to the edge of the courtyard and past the delivery gate, into dewy, acacia-scented darkness. 

Hannibal's warmth was very close to him. For a moment he leant his head's weight against Hannibal's shoulder. He would have closed his eyes, if he could have.

"We have to go," he said. "Before anyone realizes."

"I'll take care of it," Hannibal said. "You can rest now, Will."

 

**Author's Note:**

> Maria Martins is a real (and not un-Hannibalesque) artist whom I very much like -- so are all the other artists and works mentioned -- but the "Oxóssi" sculpture is made up for the purpose of this story. Evelda and Dijon Drumgo are from the early chapters of _Hannibal,_ the novel.
> 
> Pão de queijo are freaking awesome, don't let me turn you off them.


End file.
